A Study in Reaction
by Web of Obsidian
Summary: SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS – more like FAKE SUICIDE OF GENIUS, isn't it? Sherlock is back from the dead. John's decided not to kill Sherlock for real this time, but how will everybody else react? Appearances from just about everyone. Sequel to "Texts to a Dead Man". Rating for language and mentions of suicide.
1. Molly Hooper

**Sequel to "Texts to a Dead Man", which should be read first. Written for Januscars who asked very nicely if I could write the reactions of everybody else to Sherlock's sudden reappearance. Will feature almost everyone, from Mycroft to Anderson, although updates will be slow. Takes place immediately after the epilogue to "Texts to a Dead Man".**_  
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_9:06 PM, December 25th, 2015_

Sherlock pulled his coat even more tightly around himself as he and John walked through the cold streets of London through the crowds, Sherlock holding Gladstone's leash and John carrying Susan in a baby carrier. The consulting detective knew all the routes through London where Mycroft wouldn't find them – he didn't want to deal with that yet.

"So... how, exactly?" John asked as the walked, unnoticed by the hordes of people around them. A surprising amount of people for Christmas night, but that was the way of things, he supposed. Sherlock glanced over at him – John couldn't quite help the way he felt like flying because Sherlock was _alive_.

"How what?" John gave an exasperated sigh.

"Molly helped you... take a hiatus. But how?"

"Do you remember the blue ball?" John blinked at the seemingly unrelated question. "I'll take your confusion as a no. I was holding a blue ball when I told you Mrs. Hudson was shot in hopes that you wouldn't need to see me... take a hiatus, as you put it. If you take a rubber ball, or any sort of object, and place it underneath your arm correctly, it will block off the main artery leading to your hand, therefore slowing the pulse." John's eyes widened in realization.

"So when I checked your pulse-"

"You didn't feel a heartbeat because I was blocking the blood flow."

"Bastard."

"So I've been told, yes. Anyway, one of my homeless network, you remember them, right? One of them hit you on a bicycle, one helped spread fake blood in the time that you were down, and a few more managed to acquire medical uniforms and a gurney to take my body away. Molly used a corpse with similar injuries to fake an autopsy report, photographs and whatnot, and she was also the one to identify me considering she knew me personally. Nobody questioned it. Sandbags in the coffin, a fake identity I made months ago because I was bored, and I was on my way to taking down Moriarty's web."

John knew he was gaping again, but he couldn't help it.

"But how did you survive falling from a building? You were-" He paused, lowering his voice. "You were _three stories up_, Sherlock. It's still not possible to survive that."

"You thought you saw me hit the ground but you were hit by a bike so you didn't see actual impact. There was a truck parked in front of where you were, I landed on a mattress in the truck bed. Cracked a few ribs and really messed up my ankle and wrist, but better than the alternative."

"...If I weren't so bloody happy you're alive, I'd be ready to kill you."

The two shared a grin, and it felt so _right_.

"Here we are," Sherlock said after they had walked for half an hour. "Molly's house. She was... quite helpful, I should let her know I'm back in town."

"What if there's company?" John asked quickly as Sherlock walked up to the door. He turned back to look at him.

"She doesn't," he said. "No siblings, not married, bad relationship with her parents, and she's been- she hasn't had much luck keeping friends lately."

With that, he rapped three times on the wooden door.

"Coming!" came the faint reply. "Although if this is another set of bloody carolers, I've got a water pistol-"

Molly opened the door and stared at Sherlock and John. There was a long silence.

"It's done?" she asked weakly. Sherlock nodded.

"I'm not looking forward to the press," came his typical Sherlockian reply, and Molly laughed and wrapped him in a hug.

"Oh, come in, come in," she said cheerfully. "And you too, John. Tell me, did you punch him? I was ready to a bunch of times after I saw how you'd been doing; for someone who's a genius he can be downright stupid, putting everyone through all this. Oh, you brought Susie! Hello there, sweetheart! Oh, and Gladstone too, he doesn't mind cats, does he? Toby doesn't mind dogs if they leave him alone..."

Christmas dinner was spent with a widowed veteran army surgeon, a very-_not_-dead high-functioning semi-sociopath, a mortician, who despite doing postmortems on a regular basis was probably the most normal person in the room, a toddler, and a dog and a cat who seemed to enjoy playing chase around the room.

John hadn't smiled so much in years.


	2. John Watson

_3:46 PM, December 26__th__, 2015_

John blinked once and squinted at the clock next to his bed. That couldn't be right...

_3:46 __**AM**_

Okay. Okay, that was better.

_No_, no, no, wait, _what?_

Three in the morning, why was he awake-?

"Sh'lock," he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing at his face. He wasn't quite sure if he should be ecstatic over the violin music floating through the house or if he should be furious.

Right now they were in John's flat, having left Molly's sometime around midnight. Sherlock had said that he had somewhere to sleep, but one glance at his clothes told John that his "perfectly adequate sleeping quarters" were most likely in a drafty room (if it could even qualify as a room) underneath a fake name and a moldy ceiling.

It was amazing how quickly one could adapt, although he had a feeling that there would be shouting and arguing in the very near future.

Of course, he wouldn't be shouting now, he couldn't wake Susie, but he could politely tell Sherlock to shut up before he woke the whole neighborhood. Nodding to himself as he stumbled down the hallway, yes, he would do _just_ that-

"Hello, John."

"Sher- what- what're you doing?"

"Embarking on a valiant endeavor to keep your eardrums intact," Sherlock replied, remarkably calm for one playing the violin while lying on a couch with an infant drooling on his shirt. "I heard her crying begin to escalate but you didn't seem to notice, not surprising considering how exhausted you are. I believe someone once mentioned babies liked the sound of a human heartbeat because it simulated conditions in the womb, a strange tidbit of information that I never got around to deleting. Someone else also mentioned some infants seem to enjoy music. Then again, they might have been talking about cats, I'm not entirely sure, but she's quieted down now. Did I wake you?"

John just stood there, sleep-fogged brain not quite able to follow Sherlock's rapid-fire and somewhat disjointed speech patterns. Not that he could follow Sherlock very well when he was awake to begin with, but no matter.

"Go on back to sleep, John, if you're even awake now. You certainly don't look it."

"Are you real?"

The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them, and Sherlock's hand twitched slightly, causing the violin to screech to a halt. Susie stirred, but didn't wake.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock sounded genuinely confused. "Of course I'm real."

"You-" John's voice broke, and he collapsed into his armchair. "You've said that before, though. Hundreds of times, and then- then I listen. I go back to sleep, and I wake up in the morning and you were never even here. Sherlock, you have _no idea_ how often I've sat in this chair and had this conversation-"

"John."

Sherlock silenced him with a word, and John could just make out his gaunt expression in the dark room. His eyes shone brightly in their sockets, and if John didn't know better he would have thought Sherlock looked apologetic; apologetic and guilty and a few other emotions tossed in that looked utterly alien on his features.

"I assure you, John, that I am as real as I ever was, which is to say, _quite _real. I'm not leaving, John, not like that, not for a long while. Now go off and sleep, or whatever it is normal people do at this hour of the morning."

John didn't move.

"Do you know what you did to all of us?" he whispered. "Do you know how badly it affected us all? You explained what you did, and I suppose I can understand _why_, but do you have any idea about the consequences? Lestrade nearly lost his job, and even with some help from a friend that happens to have a minor position in the British government, he still got demoted. I've seen Mrs. Hudson be fine one moment and then break down sobbing the next. Mycroft cried at your funeral, _cried_. Actually shed tears because he thought you were dead. I threw my old revolver into the Thames."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sherlock's voice was quiet and strained.

"Because as much as I wanted to join you, wherever you were, you would have wanted me to keep living."

Nobody spoke for a long time, and they sat in silence in the shadows.

"I'm sorry, John."

Sherlock sounded truly sorry, and their gazes met.

"There isn't anything else I can say aside from that, John. I regret putting everyone through so much hardship, but the equivalent was everyone being dead. I had no choice, John. Now go back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

John fell asleep to the sounds of violin music floating through the house, slow and mournful ballad saying more than words ever could.


	3. Mrs Hudson

_2:26 PM, December 27__th__, 2015_

Martha Hudson opened the door to 221 Baker Street to find a stout little man with graying hair carrying a load of books on the doorstep.

"Hello," he mumbled gruffly, shifting his pile of books to extend a purse. "I was behind you in the supermarket when you dropped this and I poked around to find your address. Everything is still there. You can check." Mrs. Hudson let out a short gasp and took the offered item, beaming.

"Oh, thank you, dear!" she exclaimed, opening the door a bit wider. "Come in, come in, I'll just make you a nice cup of tea. I think there might be some scones, are you hungry?"

She kept up a steady flow of chatter as the little man followed her inside, shuffling over to the table with his heavy load of books.

"You didn't need to return it, really, but I am quite thankful, it has all my pills in it along with the little cash I make," she said as she moved around the counter. "I used to rent the other two flats, 221B and 221C, you're in 221A right here. You might remember, that detective? Sherlock Holmes? He and his friend, John, they took 221B, such wonderful boys they were." She wiped briefly at her eyes and waited for the kettle to boil. "And don't think for one second that that man was a fraud! Half the things he solved were cold cases that happened before he was born, and he helped me out of a spot of trouble over in the States. Wonderful, the two of them were." She began to pour the water into a set of cups, then reached for the sugar. "I can't bear to rent out their old flat even though it's cleaned out and everything, and 221C has all their old things in boxes. You know, that man was _amazing_, but such a pain sometimes. I'd always say to him when he asked for something "I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, Sherlock, dear-"

Having turned around to hand the man a cup of tea, she froze mid-sentence. Her lips trembled as her words trailed off, mouthing soundlessly, but then she let out a shriek and dropped the teacups with a resounding clatter before stumbling backwards.

Sherlock rose to his feet and took a half-step forwards, but she only backed away more.

"How- how _dare _you-"

"Mrs. Hudson-"

"-giving an old woman such a fright-"

"Mrs. Hudson-!"

"-disrespectful-"

"Mrs-"

"-_get out of my house!_"

"_Mrs. Hudson!_"

They both fell silent and stared at each other.

"Sh- Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson whispered faintly, eyes wide, white as a sheet. "Is it-? Are you really-?"

"I'm quite real, Mrs. Hudson, as I have assured John," he said quietly, setting a wig and mask down on the table and smoothing out his now too-short coat.

He had to lunge forward a split second later as she paled even further and collapsed in a faint. For a couple moments his mind was overrun with panic – what did people do when someone else passed out in shock? - but he forced himself to think calmly. Gently, with the care only found between family members, he laid her on the couch in the sitting room of 221A. Her breathing and pulse rate was steady; John would never forgive him – _he would never forgive himself_ – if this caused her to have a heart attack or-

Sherlock ignored the fact that he was panicking as Mrs. Hudson began to stir.

"Mrs. Hudson, can you hear me?" he asked softly, and anyone who wasn't John Watson would have been surprised to hear the tenderness in his voice as he spoke to the older woman. "Mrs. Hudson?"

His head snapped to the side so quickly he fancied he could hear his neck crack and there was a stinging pain blossoming across the side of his face. An instant later he was yanked downwards into a hug, Mrs. Hudson's arms tightly around him as she laughed and cried at the same time.

"Sherlock- _Sherlock_- do you have _any idea_- oh, you clever, clever boy-! You would manage to- have you told John-?"

If it was any other person sobbing like this, arms around his neck so tightly he couldn't breathe and causing him to bend over in a position sure to wreak havoc on his body for a few days, Sherlock would have extricated himself with a few harsh words and handed the person over to John. He was better with the entire sentiment... thing.

But this was Mrs. Hudson. This was the woman who gave him a home after he had fled to the States, penniless, in order to escape his brother. This was the woman who he had rescued from the grip of a criminal she had been unfortunate enough to marry, the woman who had stayed with him during his lapses of boredom and fits of temper. The woman who treated him like her own son.

So he returned the hug and whispered quiet words of assurance, letting her cry until she had calmed herself down. He helped her clean the shattered cups off of the floor, accepted her offers of food and drink even though he really wasn't hungry at all. It was the least he could do.


	4. DI Lestrade

_10:27, December 31__st__, 2015_

"We should call Lestrade."

Molly, John, and Sherlock were all in John's flat, Susie sleeping up in her room, Gladstone lying on the floor, resting his head on top of John's feet. It had been several days since Sherlock's reappearance, and while John was somewhat anxious to make it known his former flatmate was alive, they still needed to figure out _how_. He couldn't just waltz into Scotland Yard and ask if there were any cases available.

"Why?" John asked, taking a sip from his glass of wine. It _was_ New Year's Eve, and Molly had insisted on being festive. They actually had reason to celebrate this year. Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver some sort of retort, most likely on John missing the obvious or something similar, then sighed.

"Because I owe him several apologies," he replied. "Phone?" John glared, but tossed his phone to Sherlock, who dialed a number before frowning. "No, you talk, he can't hear me." The phone was tossed back to John, who somehow managed to catch it without dropping the glass and held it to his ear just as Lestrade picked up.

"_Hello?"_

"Hi... Greg. It's, er, it's John."

"_John! Hello. Um..." _Lestrade trailed off awkwardly, a traditional greeting of _how've you been?_ or _how are you?_ being miserably useless.

"Are you- doing anything for New Year's?"

"_...No. Sitting round and watching telly, really."_ Awkward was mixed with confusion.

"Why don't you drop by? Molly's over, and she brought a friend. You'd probably like to meet him." Both Molly and Sherlock were grinning.

"_...Yeah. Okay, sure. Sounds good. I'll just drop by, then. Happy... belated Christmas."_

There was a click and then the dial tone, and Sherlock laughed before sobering quickly.

"Do you think he'll try to punch me?" he asked after a pause.

"Probably," John said. "I'll ask him to do it twice since I can't bring myself to."

He managed to maintain a straight face for about a second before dissolving into snickers. Sherlock didn't look particularly amused.

_11:03, New Year's Eve_, _2015_

Molly was the one to get the door when the bell rang. Sherlock was holding his violin, absent-mindedly drawing the bow over the strings in what started as a tuneless melody before morphing into the first few strands of a funeral march, although he didn't seem to notice. John gave him a sharp look, and it quickly turned into _We Wish You A Merry Christmas._

"Good to see you, Molly..." they heard coming from the hallway. "So it's just John and your friend, then?"

"Yeah, I really do think you'd like to meet him," Molly replied. "He's really into the whole the investigation sort of thing, considers himself to be a detective, you know." John nearly choked on his wine. "Here, let me take your coat, John's been putting them over in the closet. Everyone's over this way."

"Hello, John, happy New Ye..."

Lestrade trailed off as he stepped into the living room, Molly following behind. Sherlock smiled, finishing the song with a flourish and waving at Lestrade with the bow.

"Hello, Lestrade," he said. "Any interesting cases?"

The DI responded by collapsing in a faint.

Not entirely surprised by his reaction, Molly caught his head before he hit the ground, and John got up to help her move him to the sofa, handing his wine to Sherlock. The consulting detective paused, glancing between his violin and the glass before setting them both down in his chair and snatching Molly's glass of wine from the nearby table.

"Sherlock, you can't just give him alcohol!" John shouted in protest. Lestrade began to stir on the couch, and Sherlock handed Molly the glass back.

"It worked, didn't it?" he countered, handing Molly the glass back. "Hello, Lestrade. I believe you passed out before you could answer my question."

"Bloody hell," he mumbled sitting up. "How- how the- did I just have too much to drink?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "No, I assure you the only drinks you have consumed would be the frankly repulsive coffee handed out at the Yard and the wine I just poured down your throat in the hopes of reviving you."

Almost as if in a trance, the DI sat up, accepted John's offered hand and stood up, all the while staring at Sherlock.

Approximately three seconds later, Lestrade pulled his fist back and sent it flying into Sherlock's face. The detective stumbled backwards, one hand flailing about in an attempt to regain balance and the other cupped under his nose in an attempt to prevent blood from splattering on John's carpet. Lestrade flexed his fingers, breathing heavily.

"Do you have any idea what you did to us?" the DI said furiously. "To anyone?"

"Thank you, Lestrade," John said calmly, patting Lestrade on the shoulder. "But I do believe I've managed to guilt trip him enough in the past week, so by this point the punching wasn't really necessary."

"...You've known for a _week?_" Lestrade said, watching as Molly pulled Sherlock to his feet and dragged him into the kitchen, then went in search of the first aid kit.

"Yeah," John said, drawing out the word. "Christmas Day. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"What- what did he do?"

"Sit down, first," Molly pushing him towards the sofa. "You look like you're about to pass out again. Here, I'll go and get you something to drink." She walked towards the kitchen, and the three sat in silence.

"You nearly lost me my job," Lestrade muttered. Sherlock had the decency to look abashed. "But... _how?_"

"Molly helped me fake my death," he replied, sitting down. "It was... Moriarty. He had snipers, three of them, trained on John, Mrs. Hudson, and you, Lestrade. And then he told me I had to jump or you would all die, then shot himself before I could, ah, _persuade_ him otherwise. The past three years were spent taking out Moriarty's web until I could come back."

"Yes, and then you made me think I was hallucinating," John said with an eye-roll, but there was no animosity as the two laughed. "Here, look at this." He tossed Lestrade his phone, who blinked a few times at the text message on the screen.

"'To John Watson, Subject: Error, _I'm not dead? _That's how you tell your best friend you faked your suicide?!"

The two were still chuckling, but Sherlock sobered.

"Well, it seemed prudent," he shrugged. "And, Lestrade... I, ah... owe you an apology. For making you almost lose your job, and... other things... I have done on occasion."

Lestrade didn't respond for a while, glancing down at John's phone, and then between the two men.

"I can't promise I won't hit you again," he finally replied. "But I do want to say that I'm already desperate to see the Superintendent's face when you make this public."

It was Lestrade and John who laughed this time, but Sherlock remained serious.

"So you're not going try and arrest me?" he prodded. Lestrade snorted, still chuckling, and shook his head.

"No, you daft git," he replied fondly. "Although if you ever do this again I will kill you for real."

"I said the same thing," John snickered.

Sherlock still remained stoically calm.

"I have no intention of planning anything of this magnitude again," he said. "But anyway, now that we have sentimentality out of the way, I have a brief confession to make."

"Can't be any worse than what you did before," Lestrade mumbled. Sherlock ignored him.

"I told you that I spent the last three years taking out Moriarty's web," the detective said with a sigh. "And that I only returned to London because it was safe. That is not entirely true. There is one man left, in London at this very moment. Moriarty's right hand, the closest thing to a friend he ever had. And I need your help to catch him."

Molly walked into a silent room, holding a glass of wine. "Okay, what did I miss?"

Bells began to chime midnight in the distance, and Sherlock began to play _Auld Lang Syne_ as though nothing had happened.


	5. Sebastian Moran

_1:52 AM, January 7__th__, 2016_

Sebastian Moran calmly and efficiently began setting up the sniper rifle in the empty house across from Baker Street.

Three years ago, he was given a contract. Set up in a stairway that will be kept clear during an allotted slot of time, and if Sherlock Holmes does not jump, shoot John Watson. That was all he had to do. Sherlock jumped, so he packed up and waited for his employer and colleague _-and the closest thing he had to a friend although he would never say it aloud-_ to contact him.

Several days passed, but he didn't mind waiting. His employer -_friend-_ was a busy man, but on the rare occasions he was free they might sit down and discuss inane things completely unrelated to work.

Then the news released the events occurring on the rooftop, given to them by the police. James Moriarty was found with a gun in his hand and a bullet through his mouth. The exact events that had taken place were still unknown, but the angle of the bullet and the saliva on the gun showed Moriarty -_Jim-_ had committed suicide.

Moran had an idea of how John Watson felt at that point.

But then he'd heard whispers. Moriarty's _-Jim's-_ empire was still standing strong, despite the loss of its leader. Orders were passed on through so many people, so much was self-sustaining, it would probably run for a long time before slowly starting to disintegrate. Except it wasn't. It was falling, members dropping like flies, little by little by little.

So he'd done some digging. Nothing had come up, but then, almost three years later-

_Sherlock Holmes was alive_. Oh, how he _burned_ with anger! How it tore away at him, that _Holmes_ should survive and Jim should be dead and disgraced and forgotten!

Part of him wanted to return to London that very night and place a bullet through John Watson's brain, but that would never do. Holmes needed to pay, first, and then Watson could die. Or, better yet, take them both out at the same time! If Holmes was alive, surely he would return to his friend and inform him of such news! At this point, he was the last one standing of Jim's empire, and Holmes had no reason to fear retribution from anyone.

So he had returned to London. He had found Watson's place of residence and watched for a day or so. From what he had gained from the neighbors, Watson was a quiet man, rather sad. Widowed, with one child, rarely had visitors, not exactly social... ah, old women were a far better source of information than any hired men; they saw _everything_!

So, over the course of the holidays, when Watson had several visitors, none of whom were family and one of whom looked very different both times but was clearly the same person, Moran knew that Holmes had indeed returned.

The next day he went to Baker Street. The old lady was still there, but later in the day, Watson came by with his child and then shortly after a stout little elderly man carrying several books was let in.

The plan was simple. Holmes would no doubt be in Baker Street; Watson's flat was too small to host more than one. Watson might return to Baker Street as well for the night, falling back into familiar habits, but even if he didn't it would be a simple task to place a bullet through Holmes' skull and then Watson's.

Simple.

He could see Holmes' silhouette. against the curtained window of 221B, and a second shadow in the background showed that Watson was indeed there. Holmes was standing in one place, occasionally turning, which made Moran's job far easier.

He finished setting up the rifle and moved to open the window.

Something slammed into him from behind, sending him stumbling forwards. His forehead cracked against the windowpanes, and by that point, no matter how much he struggled, he was firmly pinned down.

"Is killing you going to take all night?" Moran sighed, staring into the faces of Holmes and Watson.

"I would hope not, I have plans later," Holmes replied coldly, glaring. "If you would care to do the honors, John?" he asked lightly. Watson nodded stiffly, there was a blossom of fiery pain across the left side of his head, and then blackness.

Sherlock and John looked down at the now unconscious man. Despite his current state his expression was frozen somewhere between disbelief and shock. John tucked his revolved into the waistband of his pants and pulled his jacket around it to conceal it while Sherlock pulled out his phone.

"Lestrade should be waiting with a team of Scotland Yard's... well, I want to say finest, but I fear that would be an inaccurate description," he said, sending a brief message.

_220 Baker Street. Apprehended suspect.  
__-SH_

"It was a bit easy though, don't you think?" John asked. Sherlock's head snapped up, and John's eyes widened as he realized what he just said. He quickly amended his former statement. "I mean- Moran. It didn't take much to capture him." Sherlock regarded him for a long few minutes without blinking, eyes eerily reminiscent of a cat as they reflected what little light came into the room, but then he smiled.

"Well, I had my blogger with me this time, didn't I? Ah, I believe that would be Lestrade now. Interesting, their response time is getting better."

"This is their normal response time," John pointed out.

"No, it's faster." John chuckled and looked out the window.

"Lestrade's here," he commented. "Three squad cars... Oh, _wonderful_." Sherlock walked over, stepping across Moran's unconscious form and stopping at John's side. His expression curdled into disdain.

"Sarcasm suits neither of us," he sighed. "Well, I had hoped to leave them out of this for longer..."

"Look at it this way," John reasoned. "Now you can go back to your games of insulting Anderson and Donovan." Sherlock slowly nodded, and they both turned around at the sound of a door being opened downstairs and loud voices echoing up.

"Quite true," he agreed. "Quite true."

* * *

**Posting in honor of National Sherlock Day in America. :) 2 . 21. 13**

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


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